


I Have You

by ElizaPembroke



Series: Scenes from a Marriage [4]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Domestic Bliss, Established Relationship, Fluff and Smut, Hurt/Comfort, Husbands, M/M, Misunderstandings, Post-Season/Series 10, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-17
Updated: 2020-10-17
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:53:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27068197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElizaPembroke/pseuds/ElizaPembroke
Summary: For all the soulmate-idea-bordering bullshit they’ve got going on, where they sometimes don’t have to say anything to know exactly what’s on the other one’s mind, there’s still a whole fucking lot of things Mickey and Ian like to misunderstand about each other.
Relationships: Carl Gallagher & Mickey Milkovich, Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Series: Scenes from a Marriage [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1914664
Comments: 36
Kudos: 318





	I Have You

Mickey hates the idea the moment it leaves Ian’s mouth.

And yeah, technically speaking, Mickey’s the one who started this whole thing. Because he just had to go and blurt out what he was feeling like an idiot. But it’s not really his fault that for all the soulmate-idea-bordering bullshit they’ve got going on with Ian, where they sometimes don’t have to say anything to know exactly what’s on the other one’s mind, there’s still a whole fucking lot of things they like to misunderstand about each other.

Just like now.

They’re strolling home from the Alibi. It’s already well into spring, so the night’s mild, and they don’t have to layer like motherfuckers. Ian’s arm is sort of hanging over Mickey’s shoulder, fingers massaging his neck. They’ve got a nice buzz going on, stealing glances at each other, feeling embarrassingly giggly as they talk about nothing in particular or nothing at all, and Mickey’s happy and calm because this is what their free nights have consisted of lately.

They spent them together at the Alibi, drinking and shooting the shit and playing pool and sometimes chatting with Kev and V. After that, they walked home, Ian’s hand rubbing up and down his neck and back, a promise of more to come when they’re finally alone in their bedroom, and Mickey wouldn’t change a thing about it for the world.

He really doesn’t know, then, why he ruins it by saying, “We need to stop goin’ to the fuckin’ Alibi all the time. Before we turn into the gay version of Tommy and Kermit.”

But it’s what he says, and it’s all he means.

They could switch it up by going to the movies or for dinner once in a while. That’s what couples do, right?

Still, he senses the hand on the back of his head stop for just a second. That small hesitation is enough for him to sober up.

Ian shoots him a smile that feels a little too tight to pass as genuine.

“Ever thought they might already be the gay version of Tommy and Kermit?” Ian remarks, one of his brows going up.

He’s so clearly deflecting. And Mickey can tell, like only another seasoned deflector can tell. But he doesn’t really mind indulging him if it means his previous statement remains forgotten.

“Come on.” He gives Ian a skeptical nudge. “I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone who was more obstinately heterosexual than them.”

“ _Obstinately_ , okay.” Ian shoves him back. “I’m just saying. They’ve been sitting at that bar together for years.”

“You just want everyone to be gay.”

“Would that be so bad?”

“Yea, it would.”

They laugh, and Mickey watches as Ian averts his eyes to think something over.

“There’s this guy at work,” he says after a while. “Rahim. He’s gay.”

“’Kay,” Mickey replies, unsure. “Where’s this going? I tell you we shouldn’t go to the Alibi so often, and what you suggest is having a threesome or some shit?”

Ian shoots him a pointed look.

“He has a boyfriend, Patrick,” he explains. “We got talking once after work, and he said we could hit the club together. All four of us, like a double date. Might not hurt for us to have more friends. Go out. Be social.”

Mickey hates everything about the idea.

They already have enough friends. Fuck, there were more than a hundred people at their wedding.

And sure, those were mostly the Gallaghers, the gay Jesus freaks, the numerous acquaintances that Ian’s made through his various jobs and clung to like a puppy in the years passed, the nonhomophobic/nonincarcerated/non-on-the-run part of the Milkovich clan, and people that owed Mickey money.

So yeah, not many people that he’d call exactly close.

Ian’s close like that to his family, which Mickey never really understood, since all he got from his family was a polite, if somewhat cringy prison phone call from Iggy, a short text message from Mandy saying _congrats on locking down the best one, assface_ , and a huge fucking bill from Terry for the damages he’s done to the motel Mickey and Ian were staying in for their wedding night.

There’s a guy at work Mickey had a beer with on one or two occasions. Eduardo. He’s Mexican, which scared the living shit out of Mickey at first because he thought the cartel finally got wind of him.

The guy seems harmless, though. Even insists on Mickey calling him Lalo, which he doesn’t.

And he doesn’t want more friends. What would he need them for, anyway?

If he wants to bitch about Ian, he has Sandy. Not that there’s a lot to bitch about Ian that he wouldn’t happily bitch about to Ian’s face, but he’s still only human, and so sometimes he likes to bitch about things that don’t really bother him that much. And for that, Sandy is his person.

But Ian loves company, thrives when he can be the center of attention and fits right into all sorts of places. And if he really wants to go out with friends, Mickey will go with him, even if it’s a spectacular pain in the ass, rather than lose another chance to be with him.

He hates it because they already have close to no time just for themselves. But Ian looks so nervous and hopeful that, in the end, of course, Mickey fucking agrees.

\---

His tongue is digging into the side of his mouth as he concentrates. He’s hiding behind a dirty wall, clutching the weapon close to him, waiting for the right moment.

The hooded figure comes onto the landing, looking for him. This is it. Mickey leaps out, finger ready on the trigger. His opponent has barely any time to react before he’s struck in the chest with a stream of bullets. He falls to the ground, defenseless to Mickey’s victorious roar.

Beside him on the couch, Carl lets out an annoyed grunt.

“This game sucks,” he says as he throws his controller on the coffee table.

“Sucks only for the losers,” Mickey replies with a nasty cackle.

“Whatever,” Carl huffs, sulking.

Mickey takes a swig of his beer, too pleased with himself to not let Carl steep in his grumpiness for a bit longer.

“Rematch?” he suggests when he sets the bottle down.

Carl grins at him. “Hell yeah.”

They pick their players and start the medium-difficulty campaign again.

“So, uh,” Carl says, pausing to kick an NPC into a pixelated wall, “an old buddy of mine might have a job for me. Thought you might be interested to hear about it.”

“A job-job?” Mickey asks, eyes peeled to the TV screen.

Carl’s murmured _uh-huh_ gets drowned out in the sounds of another shoot-out. 

“Why don’t you do it?” Mickey goes on, interest definitely piqued.

“Well, I’m tryna play straight now, y’know?”

“Ya, I know. And it’s still as hilarious as it was the last time you mentioned it.”

“Fuck off.”

They go quiet for a moment, focusing all their efforts on the game. Several dead bodies later, Mickey clears his throat.

“How much?”

“Could go up to a thousand.”

“Sweet.”

“So, you want in?”

“Sure. When’s the drop?”

“Friday night.”

Mickey pauses the game and turns to Carl.

“Shit. Can’t do Friday night.”

“Why not?”

He sighs as he scratches his brow with a thumb. “We got invited to a club by Ian’s coworker,” he answers, not even trying to pretend to be excited about it. “He’s bringing his boyfriend.”

Carl looks appalled. “This a sex thing?”

“Fuckin’ hope not.”

The front door opens and closes. Mickey looks over his shoulder to find Lip taking in the scene in front of him with a knowing smirk.

“Nice to see you two being productive members of society,” he chides, passing them on his way to the kitchen.

They flip him off in this randomly coordinated way, which brings Mickey malicious joy.

“Can’t you just go on a different night?” Carl asks him after they unpause the game.

“Nah, man. Can’t do it to Ian. Think he’s really looking forward to it.”

Mickey only notices Lip’s back in the room when he opens his can of Coke with a loud _crack_ and _hiss_.

“Tami here?” Lip says then, gesturing upstairs.

When they tell him that she and Fred are out, Lip joins them on the couch, squeezing himself in the free space between them.

Carl punches his shoulder when he steals the controller from him.

\---

The club is called The Cockpit, and Ian has to grip Mickey’s shoulders to stop him from making a sharp U-turn and walking his ass straight back home. He resorts to prolonged groans of dissatisfaction as Ian maneuvers him forward.

They meet Rahim and Patrick by the entrance. Mickey can tell they are nice enough, regular sort of guys from the welcomingly short round of pleasantries they exchange there. But that still doesn’t mean he shakes Rahim’s hand when he stretches it out to him.

Instead, Mickey gives a noncommittal wave, which in his head passes as somewhat polite, and Rahim cracks a smile.

“I see Ian wasn’t exaggerating in his description of you, Mickey,” he comments amusedly, switching his look from Mickey to Ian.

Mickey can’t help but think about _what the fuck_ that means and how much of the information Ian gave this guy came out of them genuinely being friends and sharing stuff like that, and how much was just the damage control Ian was undoubtedly trying to do before tonight.

They’re so early, there’s no line yet. Mickey guesses that’s probably the main difference between going to a club past midnight to see your underaged lover shake his ass in tiny golden booty-shorts in the faces of rich geriatric pervs and going there right after dinner as a grown-up for a double date with your husband’s gay friend from work and his partner.

By the way, that’s definitely a thing he needs to send to his homophobic prick of a dad as a voice memo. He puts it down on his mental to-do list for later, when he’s a little drunker.

After Ian pays the bouncer, Mickey tugs at his arm, stopping him from following Rahim and Patrick inside.

“Leave me alone with them, and I’m gonna punch you in the nuts,” Mickey threatens, only partially kidding. “And not in the way you like.”

Ian gives his scowling lips a quick peck.

“I love it when you’re flirting with me,” he replies, shoving Mickey’s chest playfully.

Being actually inside the club, with its dimmed lights, _thump-thumps_ , and stifling air, kind of wigs Mickey out, since the last time he was in one, he was still in Mexico, where clubs quickly became his go-to place for easy lays.

Not that his overall experience with them was necessarily bad, but he could probably do without hearing dance music with Spanish lyrics ever again.

They head upstairs, and Mickey lets himself get momentarily lulled into a comfortable trance by Ian’s ass stretching out the fabric of his skinny jeans as he walks in front of him.

The good thing about coming here when the club is still relatively empty is that they get to have their own booth. As they sit down in one overlooking the dancefloor, Mickey tries to not think too much about how sticky the upholstery feels or how clenched his insides are.

When they all get their drinks, Patrick leans forward to flash them a conspiratorial smirk.

“Party favors, gentlemen?” he says, his brow rising up as he dramatically pulls out a small bag with pills of various colors from his shirt pocket. 

Mickey instantly reaches out his hand.

“Yes, _please_!”

He doesn’t know what it is and doesn’t particularly care. Figures he has to endure the rest of the night somehow, and this certainly looks like it can do the trick.

Taking his glass of Jack, he turns to Ian, checking his reaction.

He sits there unperturbed while Rahim and Patrick, in what is clearly not their first couple-y fun ride, place the drug on each other’s tongues and proceed to make out rather thoroughly.

It’s pretty disgusting, but also weirdly arousing, Mickey finds.

When Ian notices him watching, he grabs the back of his head and crashes their open mouths together to give him a few hard, deep kisses of his own.

“You go ahead.” He nods at Mickey’s closed palm as he pulls away, smiling. “I’ll enjoy watching you enjoy it.”

Mickey holds Ian’s gaze as he washes the pill down with his whisky. Then, closing his eyes for just a second, he relaxes into the seat.

\---

Ian keeps giving him sidelong glances, emphasized with little enthusiastic sounds when Rahim and Patrick talk about upcoming events that they plan on attending, as if he actually thinks they might ever go to a genderbending hipster fashion show or an unplugged concert of some non-binary folk guitarist, whatever either of those things means.

But Ian’s hand is firmly positioned on his thigh, alternating between slow strokes up and down and light squeezes, and Mickey feels good, so he doesn’t protest.

He’s slumped very unattractively in the seat, his second glass of Jack balancing on his other thigh. The drug’s effects are only about to kick in, so he appreciates Ian doing the talking for both of them.

A remixed version of [Lady Gaga’s Stupid Love](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8U7jjtWOZ-U) comes on, and Patrick honest to fucking God squeals in glee, pulling Rahim up to go dance with him.

Ian laughs, shaking down his shirt to reveal a tight white tank top. “I’m gonna join them. You coming?” he asks Mickey, who thinks he’s probably done his life’s worth of jumping around like a jackass on their wedding day.

“Nah. I’m fine here,” Mickey says with a shake of his head.

Ian’s lips curl into a teasing lopsided smile.

“You gonna watch me?”

Mickey narrows his eyes, not really fooling anyone when he mutters, “Maybe.”

Not really minding being left there on his own, Mickey orders another whisky and perches on the edge of the booth to get a better view of his husband and the bold looks he sneaks at him as he basically shows off his dance moves, so unashamedly glad to finally be able to do some more impressive stuff without the cast on his leg.

By the time an [arty remix of Hey Now](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hzo1_maqV_w) plays, the floor is packed with sweaty dancers, but Mickey can still see Ian in the crowd pretty clearly.

His eyes are closed, and he seems to be lost in the music. As Mickey watches the lights slide over his face and muscles that are struggling against the tightness of his clothes, the hardness in his pants gets past the point of unnoticeable.

Because, well, Ian is hot – yes, even _stunning, gorgeous, sensuous_ ; damn that insufferable bastard for putting words in his mind – and also because Mickey’s high is slowly reaching the roof of the club.

His calm is instantly replaced by alarm when, out of a sudden, this graying geezer walks up to Ian, tapping him on the shoulder, putting an abrupt stop to his movement.

Mickey watches as he leans in closer to whisper something in Ian’s ear, adrenaline pumping through his veins, willing him to shout at the guy to step the fuck back.

A part of him wants his fists to do the job.

Even through the laser beams and artificial fog, he sees the color drain out of Ian’s face. He looks in horror at the old man, who just taps his chest with a creepy leer and leaves him standing there, frozen on the spot.

That’s not good.

Mickey doesn’t remember standing up, but there he is, already stomping down the stairs to find Ian in the crowd, fearing it might swallow him before he gets there.

When he reaches him, his vacant stare directed somewhere on the floor, Mickey gently lifts up his face to meet his with an inaudible _hey_.

“What the fuck was that about?” he asks, loud enough.

Ian blinks a few times, coming back from wherever he just went, and yanks out of his embrace. As he makes his way through the mass of people, Mickey follows him, even more confused.

\---

“Whoa, OK, steady, Sanderson,” Mickey says when Ian drops heavily into their booth and promptly kicks back Mickey’s whisky with one big gulp. “What happened? What did that guy tell you?”

Ian licks his lips, still not meeting Mickey’s eyes.

“He said he recognized me from a porno,” he admits, voice heavy. “Said he enjoyed how hard I took it.”

Mickey swears the rage blinds him for a second.

“Where’d he go? I’m gonna fuckin’ castrate him,” he spits, eyes quickly scanning the faces of the crowd below them. The blood boiling in his ears makes it frustratingly difficult to concentrate on thinking where he could get a good set of pliers around here.

“For watching porn?” For some reason, Ian sounds like that doesn’t warrant public mutilation. “Come on, Mick. Let it go. It’s fine. It’s done. Knew this was gonna happen sooner or later.”

Shouldn’t he be the one comforting Ian? He guesses he’s too busy clenching his fists so tightly that his fingernails leave small imprints on his palms.

Ian takes one of his hands, swiping a thumb over his taut knuckles.

“Mick? Can we go home?” Mickey hears him ask.

He takes one last look around the dancefloor, the bopping figures blending together in a surf of color, and steadies himself.

“Yea. Let’s fuckin’ go home.”

\---

They spend the rest of the night in front of the TV. The house is empty, save for the sleeping Franny that Debbie – too delighted to find that Ian and Mickey suddenly decided to drop their initial Friday night plan to ask why – left in their care to have a night out with Sandy of her own, and Liam, who sits next to Ian on the couch, happily munching on his popcorn.

They’re watching a rerun of some 80s sitcom, and Ian laughs at it mostly in the tired, obligatory sort of way, like he doesn’t want to stay quiet for too long more than anything else.

It kills Mickey that he doesn’t know what to do or say to make what happened in the club better.

Mostly though, he’s pissed at himself.

He can’t really help it. The drugs are doing fucking victory laps in his system. And then there’s Ian, pretending to not feel hurt, sitting so close to Mickey and smelling like he always does, and Mickey sports a rather impressive and totally inconvenient boner.

Actually, as far as ill-timed erections go, this one probably tops Mickey’s personal list. And it’s not like he hasn’t had a fair share of them in his closeted youth. One even started with a tire iron pressed to his spine.

It’s fair to add that that one eventually went to top his best-timed erections list, so who the hell knows anything.

He squirms in the seat, willing the hard-on with all his stubbornness and might to go away.

Ian, of course, notices. That’s why, when Liam hops off the couch to get a pop from the fridge, he suddenly has his lips on Mickey’s neck, nuzzling it with tiny pecks and sucks, his hand palming at his crotch.

“Want some help with that?” He signs off his question with a light bite to Mickey’s skin.

For three blissful seconds, Mickey contemplates shattering the remnants of Liam’s mental well-being by sliding onto Ian’s lap and dry-humping him right there on the couch.

He comes back to reality with a thud of the fridge door sliding shut. “ _Shit_. Sorry,” he says, apologizing both to Ian and to his wonderfully kinky stoned self. “I can go jerk off upstairs.”

Ian clearly resolves to not making it any easier for Mickey.

“Why, when I’ve got a perfectly working mouth right here?” he asks.

“ _Ian_ ,” Mickey warns, his restraint wearing thin.

Luckily, Liam comes back in the room then, sighing annoyedly at the state of them.

The TV’s playing another laugh track when Ian, always the master of never playing things cool, smacks a kiss onto Mickey’s cheek.

“We should probably go brush our teeth,” he suggests, eyebrows wiggling. Mickey snickers when he turns to Liam. “Thirty more minutes, then bed. ‘Kay, punk?”

“Uh-hm,” Liam replies, not really listening anymore as he’s too busy with turning the volume up on the TV.

As they walk upstairs, Mickey reminds himself to get Liam a first-rate pair of headphones with his work discount. He can’t let the poor boy turn deaf because of them.

\---

Ian closes the accordion door and crashes into Mickey with swift, confident steps. He gives him hard, probing kisses full of teeth and tongue, one hand cradling the back of Mickey’s head, the other sneaking inside his jeans to stroke his cock.

When Mickey finally manages to pull away from him, it’s with an embarrassingly eager moan.

“Ian. Hey,” he tries to protest, halt Ian’s ministrations, but he just continues moving down onto Mickey’s neck.

“ _Mmm_. Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“I want to enjoy myself tonight.” Ian comes back to lick across Mickey’s half-closed lips. “Have sex with my husband because I love him, and he makes me hard, even if he’s currently too deep inside his head to see that I don’t need his worries, but for him to drop his pants and let me eat his ass.”

Ian’s eyes get so dark with the blunt admission that Mickey just about spares one last pitying thought to Liam before he grabs Ian to swap their places and pushes him onto the bed, hurriedly tearing off his own clothes while Ian does the same under him. 

It’s gonna be a loud one.

\---

There’s a strange wave of tranquility that comes to Mickey only after a good and proper fuck.

He basks in the feeling of simultaneously being both completely spent and buzzing with renewed energy as he lies on his back, arm behind his head on the pillow, fingers running through red hair that’s soaked with sweat.

“I’m sorry.”

Ian’s resting on Mickey’s stomach, long legs propped high on the wall beside the open window that’s letting in a pleasant chill as he smokes.

“Ain’t your fault,” Mickey says, and it comes out automatic, but he means it. He never blamed Ian for the things he did while he was manic.

Ian stops Mickey’s hand to bring it to his lips, kissing the center of the open palm only to lay it down onto his rising chest, his and Mickey’s fingers intertwined.

The room’s dark, and Mickey can just about make out the profile of Ian’s face.

He watches the tip of his burning cigarette as he says: “I probably won’t feel like going to a club anytime soon.”

Mickey snickers. “Thank fuck.”

“But Rahim and Pat were nice, right?”

He feels Ian look at him, hair scratching at his lower belly.

“Pro’bly didn’t even notice we left.”

“No, they really didn’t.” Ian’s laugh turns into a cough. “Shit. Some friends.”

He passes the cigarette to Mickey, who has to lift his head first to take it.

What Mickey doesn’t know, is that this whole time, while he was terrified of not being able to keep up with Ian and not being enough for him, Ian feared a similar yet very different thing. That the married life, along with Ian’s highs and lows, his nosy siblings, needy nephews and nieces, and fucking Frank, would slowly become too much for Mickey and that he’d leave.

Mickey doesn’t know and won’t hear it from him anytime soon, but at that moment, he realizes that Ian doesn’t seem as happy about the prospect of them hanging out with people as he previously made him out to be.

“Look,” Mickey starts as he blows out smoke, “if for some bizarre reason you’re doing this for me, then fuckin’ stop. I don’t need more friends. I have you.”

To him, it’s the most obvious thing in the world. He doesn’t feel like he’s dropping an emotional bomb or whatever when admitting it, but somehow, he’s not so sure it’s the same for Ian.

He stares at Mickey in the dark, hand still clutching his to his heart.

“You don’t mind turning into a couple of grandpas in our twenties?” Ian says after some time. “Popping pills first thing in the morning, always hanging together, staying in more than staying out?”

Mickey snorts with the cigarette in his mouth. He takes two more drags to finish it, then carefully reaches out to stub it in the ashtray sitting on the nightstand.

“I don’t think anyone who’s seen us fuck could call us grandpas,” he tells Ian with a cocky smirk he isn’t sure that he can see.

Ian lets go of his hand to roll over.

“Speaking of which.” He licks his lips before he leans closer to Mickey’s face. “Lemme see your ass again.”

“ _Hmm_.” Mickey laughs into the kiss Ian gives him. “I love it when you’re flirting with me.”

**Author's Note:**

> Find me at [abundanceofnots](https://abundanceofnots.tumblr.com/).


End file.
